by Hunt, Angela
“I thought you’d feel that way. The vet wanted me to make sure, though.”
“Thanks. Thanks for calling.”
“No trouble. And hey—you sound a lot farther away than D.C. Where are you hiding yourself these days?”
For an instant I’m confused, then I remember that the CIA gave me a fake phone number with a D.C. area code. Someone at Langley redirected Becky’s call.
“Where am I? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry about the dog. He’s in good hands.”
“Give the doofus a hug from me.”
I hang up and press my hands together as I offer a quiet, fervent prayer for the success of Elvis’s surgery. When I open my eyes, Dr. Mewton is standing at the end of the conference table.
“Why,” she asks, her eyes dark and brooding, “are you doing this?”
For an instant my head swarms with confusion, then I realize that she has to be talking about my promise to help Sarah. “Why does it matter to you?”
“Sarah matters to me.”
“She matters to me, too. I’m her family.”
“I’m her guardian. I’ve looked after her for twenty years, and I only want what’s best for the girl.”
“Then why do you want to imprison her?”
The woman shows her teeth in an expression that is not a smile. “Imprison her? I’m protecting her.”
“You’ve stifled her. You’re using her.”
“I’m employing her.”
“Only now. Why were you so keen on keeping her here before she was old enough to be employed by the CIA?”
“Somebody had to take care of the girl. No one in your family seemed interested.”
I draw a deep breath and try another tack. “I don’t know why you’re so set against this, Dr. Mewton. Maybe you’re gaining power or prestige from the work Sarah’s doing. Maybe she’s fulfilling your minuscule maternal instincts. I don’t know why you’re holding her back, but clearly you are.”
She sends me a glare hot enough to singe my eyebrows. “Don’t make assumptions, Dr. Carey. They can be dangerous.”
“I might say the same thing to you. Don’t assume you know what’s best for Sarah. She deserves the opportunities she should have been granted as a child.”
“What, opportunities to be mocked? Scorned? I don’t know what you’ve told her, but she will never be a beauty queen. Frankly, compared to the mess she was at birth, I think her face is a vast improvement.”
“She may not be a beauty queen after additional surgery, but she deserves a chance to speak to people without seeing them flinch or avert their eyes.”
“You think I want to protect her only because of her appearance? You misjudge me, Dr. Carey. I’m trying to protect her intellect, her very soul.”
“What sort of intellect flourishes in confinement? What soul finds its full expression in seclusion? We are social creatures, Dr. Mewton, so if you care for Sarah as much as you say you do, you’ll support her in her desire to be free. You and I ought to work together to do what’s best for her.”
Beneath the frozen surface of my adversary’s countenance, I see a suggestion of thawing and flowing, as though a submerged spring were trying to break through.
“It won’t be easy.” She steps forward to place her hands on the table. “I can foresee a dozen major risks.”
“You have resources—far more than I do. If you help us, you’ll earn Sarah’s undying gratitude…and her affection.”
I am guessing, of course, that Sarah’s affection is what this lonely woman craves. When a trace of wistfulness steals into her expression, I’m sure I’ve guessed correctly.
“I do want to help her,” Dr. Mewton says, lowering her voice. “And I have read about facial transplants. But the risks are so high.”
“Such as?”
“Rejection, of course. Some of the immunosuppressive drugs can lower a patient’s resistance to other illnesses. Sarah could be trading a cloistered life for a considerably shorter one.”
“Not necessarily. A researcher in Cleveland has managed to induce long-term tolerance to hind-leg transplants with a drug regimen lasting only seven days.”
“In rats. Sarah is human.”
“Sarah is an adult. Shouldn’t we let her make her own choices?”
The doctor presses her lips together. “I’m going to help you, even though I’m afraid I’ll be picking up the pieces when your grand experiment fails. But that’s what we do here at the convent—we patch up and repair people when missions go awry.”
“This mission isn’t going to fail.” I speak the words out of hope and faith and optimism, even as I realize I can offer no guarantees.
Mewton’s eyes narrow. “Let’s hope it doesn’t. But if it does, Sarah will be in a worse situation than she is now. Then she’ll need a safe place to recover…so I’ll stand by, waiting to offer it.”
I draw a deep breath, fully aware that I have suggested an incredible feat. We will be engaging in an experiment that, to my knowledge, has never been attempted, and I have a less-than-enthusiastic support team. Mewton doesn’t like me, Sarah is quietly terrified, and no one at home even knows where I am. The haunting isolation of this place has made me feel completely alone, but if I feel bereft after being here two days, how must Sarah feel after twenty years of seclusion?
But with Mewton’s assistance—and grudging support—we’ll have access to personnel and technology we might not have otherwise. I’ll stay here to support Sarah emotionally. And I can’t help feeling that when all this is over, somewhere, somehow, Kevin and Diane will look down on us with approval, and maybe even gratitude.
Before leaving, Dr. Mewton turns to me. “I think this operation is a mistake. But Sarah’s mind is made up, and she’ll manage to convince Traut to okay the procedure. Anything she wants, he eventually gives her.”
She extends her hand. “So if we’re going to be in this together, I suppose you should call me Glenda.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sarah
For the next three days, I don’t see much of my aunt except at meals. She spends most of her time in the conference room, scribbling notes on a legal pad or gathering information from Web pages. Occasionally I glance out the window of the operations center and see her wandering in the graveyard, her arms crossed and her head down, as if she’s deep in thought. Sometimes she sits on the bench and reads, her hand spread protectively over the pages of a book.
At lunch on Tuesday, she tells me she’s spent the morning in Dr. Mewton’s office, ordering things we’ll need for our pre-transplant therapy.
I glance at Judson, whose head is bent over his soup and sandwich. He’s not going to be any help.
“Who says I need therapy?” I ask.
Aunt Renee puts down her spoon. “Anyone who is facing a major life change needs time and tools to make the adjustment. Dr. Mewton agrees that you and I should have a few sessions together.”
It’s all been decided, then. Like Randle Patrick Murphy, I’m to be treated to a mental health checkup whether I want it or not. I can only hope they forgo the lobotomy.
And what things could she be ordering? Cases of stage makeup? Burkas in every color in case the face transplant fails?
I pick up my egg salad sandwich and swallow my dissatisfaction with this latest wrinkle in my routine. Dr. Mewton may be tolerating my aunt’s therapy plans, but I know her well enough to sense the reticence behind her grudging approval.
I’ve also seen what they don’t want me to see—the two of them arguing in Dr. M’s office. Occasionally, when I know they’re together, I hack into the surveillance feed and watch them snipe at each other across the desk. Keeping the volume low so Jud won’t hear, I watch their heads bob back and forth like players in a heated tennis match. It’s almost comical.
When Aunt Renee and Dr. M aren’t arguing, they go about their work and I try to apply myself to the Gutenberg project. Every message from Mr. Tr
aut is more terse than the one before, but my hands are tied when it comes to the testing stage of the program. I don’t have a pool of test subjects at the convent, so I have to rely on data from Langley.
One disturbing fact has come from that data: it’s impossible to distinguish between brain signals produced by actual memories and those produced by imagined memories. Unless a programmer knows exactly what cues to include, the clever criminal who imagines the perfect alibi might convince a brain scanner that he was nowhere near a crime scene.
Meanwhile, Judson has been pulled off Gutenberg and assigned to investigate Hightower’s situation. The officer I once thought infallible is still confined to room 335 and still suffering some sort of mental disconnect. Dr. Mewton even asked Aunt Renee to examine him. She did, and came out of that room saying that she’d never seen anything quite like Hightower’s condition.
Dr. Mewton asked for my assistance next. With help from the guards, she got Hightower into a straitjacket and managed to strap him to a gurney. Then I hooked him up to the EEG, but his brain waves were all over the place.
“Fried frontal lobe,” Dr. M said, glancing at the printout. “This isn’t the typical result we see with injury or disease, which leads me to one conclusion—a designer drug. But something new, a combination we haven’t seen before.”
I’m not supposed to inquire about cases I’m not assigned to, but my professional disinterest only extends so far. I’ve worked with Hightower; I like him. So occasionally Judson rolls over to my desk and pretends to read over my shoulder—ha!—while he taps out a message in Morse code: Hightower condition definitely associated with Saluda.
Then, fully aware of the security cameras, packet sniffers, and hidden microphones, he’ll ask me to check out the pictures of women who’ve responded to his Close Connection ads.
I’ve always admired the subtlety of Judson’s approach. By openly appearing to disregard Dr. Mewton’s protocols to engage in harmless infractions, he deflects suspicion from more serious security breaches.
In the graveyard one afternoon, Judson shared more detailed information about Hightower’s case. After scanning pages and pages of publicly available materials—European newspapers, Web sites, even online hospital reports—he found only three cases similar to Hightower’s, and all occurred in Spain. In each of these situations, the affected young adult was confined to a mental ward while doctors tried unsuccessfully to determine what had caused his altered state. The local cops focused on illegal drugs, as well they should, but none of the police thought to investigate Saluda Industries.
I think I smell a few rats in the Spanish police.
“What’s Saluda?”
The question comes from Aunt Renee, who shouldn’t be familiar with the name. I kick at Judson’s wheelchair under the table, knowing he’ll feel the vibration.
“Saluda?” He lifts his head and crinkles his nose. “That’s Spanish, right?”
Aunt Renee nods slowly. “Salud is Spanish for health. But I asked about Saluda.”
Judson swings his head, doing a fair imitation of Stevie Wonder. “Um, let me see. Did you hear that somewhere? Because I’m not sure I’ve heard that word used that way.”
“Yes, you have.” My aunt gives me a small smile. “I was in my room with the window open. I heard you and Sarah talking about Saluda. Now…is that some deep, dark secret, or can you tell me what it is?”
Judson shakes his head, but I’m tired of playing dumb. “Saluda Industries is a Spanish company, Aunt Renee. It’s one of the few international firms allowed to grow, manufacture, and sell poppy products—namely opium—for commercial use.”
She lifts a brow. “That’s legal here?”
“Of course. Where do you think morphine comes from? Codeine, Methadone, Demerol, Vicodin—and heroin. They all come from opium. Poppies.”
She looks from me to Judson. “Surely it’s not legal to sell heroin.”
“No, not that. But where there’s a poppy field…”
“There’s a heroin trafficker,” Judson finishes. “So we help the DEA keep tabs on ’em. We’ve been trying to keep up with Saluda—and its big man, Adolfo Rios—for years.”
Again I kick Judson’s chair. “Too much information. The walls?”
He shrugs. “Your aunt has clearance, right? Besides, I didn’t give her details. She could learn that much about Saluda from Google.”
He has a point. I reach for the pepper and sprinkle my soup, then offer the container to Aunt Renee. She shakes her head, smiling, and ladles up another spoonful of steaming broth.
I often wonder what she’s thinking. She might think Judson and I are a good team. If so, she’d be right.
Dr. Mewton has assured me that Jud will help keep Mr. Traut at bay while I’m in therapy with Aunt Renee, but he and I both know that’s Cinderella talk. We’re both swamped with work on urgent projects the director wants wrapped up ASAP.
The good thing is that even though we’re involved with different projects, we know enough about each other’s work that we could cover for each other in a pinch.
But even friends, I hope, are allowed to have some secrets between them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Renee
In the ten years I’ve been a practicing psychologist, I’ve never been so challenged by a case. I’ve spent most of the past week trying to decide how best to proceed with Sarah, and I’ve realized that I might as well begin with basic interpersonal relations. Though my niece is a brilliant young woman, her development has been hampered by isolation and a lack of social contact. She will learn as she begins to venture outside the convent. My job is to prepare her for her first day of independent living…and the many that will follow.
Sarah seemed startled to learn that we will be having sessions together, but maybe the word therapy made her skittish. I can’t be sure, but I imagine she heard the word many times as she recovered from various surgeries during her childhood. No wonder doctors have negative associations for the girl.
As part of my preparation, I have done a bit of research on Dr. Vincent Kollman, the surgeon who’ll be overseeing the transplant team. From Dr. Mewton I learned that Kollman is a contract surgeon who often works at the convent hospital. His British neighbors think he’s an American doctor who volunteers at an AIDS hospice; in reality, he routinely patches up CIA officers at the Convent of the Lost Lambs.
Dr. Kollman was scheduled to arrive yesterday morning, but at the last moment he was detained by some emergency. I swallowed my disappointment, but made a mental note: I would not miss his arrival.
Now he’s expected today, in late afternoon, so after a long interval of reading I take the elevator down to the dock. Glenda Mewton isn’t likely to send a welcoming committee to meet anyone who’s been here before, but I want to personally greet the man who will be taking care of my niece. I hope he can handle the delicate microsurgery Sarah’s case will require.
The two guards at the dock straighten and give me a cursory once-over as I step out of the elevator. “Can I help you, ma’am?” the first asks.
I shake my head and wonder if this is Mitch, the guard Sarah often mentions. “I’ve come down to meet the boat.”
He glances at his companion, making me wonder if I’ve committed some sort of faux pas, but the second guard only shrugs. “Why don’t you wait over there?” With a jerk of his head he indicates an alcove in the rock. “You’d be more comfortable.”
I blink when I see a bench hidden behind a wooden railing and so cleverly camouflaged I’m surprised I didn’t noticed it before. Perhaps the guards sit here when no visitors are expected. Surely they don’t stand at attention and hug their weapons all day.
I sit and wait in silence, my thoughts drifting over my to-do list, until the first guard steps forward and glances at his watch. At that moment I hear the roar of a motor, which subsides to a dull gurgle as a boat cruises beneath the rocky portal.
The vessel is La Reina de Cielo—the Queen of Heaven— and
the driver is my friend the broad-shouldered pseudo priest. Beside the priest is a handsome man in a white dress shirt, navy tie, and dark pants. He leaps out of the boat before the guards have even attached the mooring lines, and calls his thanks to the driver, who tosses out a rope, then hands over a suitcase and a briefcase.
Feeling suddenly shy, I stand and walk forward, hoping to catch our most recent arrival before he gets in the elevator. “Dr. Kollman?”
He stops, one bushy brow lifting. “You’re new.”
It’s unprofessional, but I feel a rich blush stain my cheeks. “I’m Dr. Carey. I don’t know if Dr. Mewton has told you, but we’re going to be working together on Sarah Sims’s case.”
Kollman’s tanned face brightens as he extends his hand. “Call me Vincent.”
“And I’m Renee.” I gesture toward the elevator and lead the way. “After you’ve had a few minutes to settle in, I’d love to talk to you about Sarah. My interest in her is far more than professional. She’s my niece.”
“Really?” At the elevator panel he punches in a code, waits a moment, then presses his thumb to a pad. A light blinks red, then green.
“Look at that,” I say, impressed. “The man even has his own key.”
To my surprise, Kollman laughs and holds the door open. “Tell you what,” he says as I pass under his arm, “why don’t I ring Shelba and ask her to serve dinner in my office? We can talk there without an audience—seen or unseen.”
“We don’t have to eat in the dining room?” My spirits rise at the thought of a change in surroundings. “Tell me where and when, and you’ve got a date.”
Dr. Kollman’s “office”—a loose description at best, he tells me—is located on the third floor. Instead of taking the elevator, I climb the uneven stone steps in the stairwell and hesitate at the third floor landing. There’s no guard here now, but I’ve never been able to predict when or where I’ll run into a young man with a gun.
