by Meg Gardiner
“Japanese Tea Garden’s going to be closed, and I’m not crazy about meeting your colleague in the dead dark. How about a warm, well-lighted public place, with plenty of people around? The de Young Museum’s open on Friday nights.”
Shepard shook his head. “I’m not putting in a public appearance. The people who want Slick will go to any lengths to get it.” He glanced at her. “You’re safe with me. But I need to be sure nobody can get to me by tracking you. Do you have a pager? BlackBerry? Any communications device? If so, turn it off and remove the battery.”
“I’m clean,” she said.
Out of the fog, trees grasped for clear air. Flower beds full of pink hydrangeas flowed past, dusty gray in the darkness.
He lifted his foot from the accelerator. “This is it.”
In the distance, rising like arthritic hands, were the sculpted trees outside the tea garden. Shepard pulled to the curb on the left side of the road and parked against traffic. Killing the engine, he put down his window a few inches so he could hear approaching motors. He was scared and smart. The quiet poured in along with the damp chill of the fog.
“Alec, we don’t have much time. How can we get hold of Ian? Is there someplace your brother would go? Do you know his friends? His old army buddies? Can you contact him?”
“I’ve tried. I called him at home, I e-mailed him. No luck. And his phone isn’t answering—if I know him, he’s set it not to transmit.”
“Does he have any hangouts? A bar? A gym, a church, a storage company where he keeps weapons?”
Shepard shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know. He runs. He camps and fishes. He spends weekends tinkering on his SUV, or doing things with Seth and Misty.”
Jo tucked her arms against her chest to keep warm. “How is Slick transported? What form is it in?”
“It’s grown—baked, however you want to understand it—as single-walled carbon nanotubes, at high temperature. But it’s put in an oilbased solution, so when it’s dispersed, it can be sprayed, fired from a bazooka—we had all kinds of ideas.”
“What does it look like?” she said.
“Slick itself? The nanoparticles are each incredibly small. Basically, they’re molecular machines. Very tiny.”
“Why do the kidnappers want the actual nanoparticle?” Jo said. “Why couldn’t they steal the research data or smash a window and grab a hard drive that has all the information? Why do they need the actual product?”
Shepard ran a hand across his forehead. “It’s devilishly hard to duplicate the research and get Slick to grow correctly—it’s like baking from scratch. When you bake, you need yeast as a catalyst. If the kidnappers obtain Slick, they can use the actual particle as a catalyst. Under correct conditions another lab could get it to replicate.”
“So this quantity is the seed supply?”
“Yes.”
Shepard killed the engine. They sat for several minutes, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. They could see nothing. Finally Shepard opened his door.
“Where are you going?” Jo said.
“I can’t just sit here. I’m going stir-crazy. Come on.”
He closed the door and disappeared into the fog. Reluctantly, Jo followed.
The trees were shadows. The night was utterly quiet, close, and chilly. She hunched into her sweater, feeling how stiff her leg and ribs were growing. By the morning, she would be congealed into a solid bruise. A few hundred yards away, she knew, the park opened into a wide panorama. The de Young Museum was there somewhere, invisible, as was a huge outdoor music pavilion. She saw the slightest glow from the museum buildings.
Beyond the curving sidewalk the smell of pine and damp was thick. The pagodas of the Japanese Tea Garden, with their red lacquered wood and ornate black roofs, were lost to the mist.
Shepard stopped outside a heavy wooden portico. The gates were closed, the calming pathways of the garden locked up.
Jo lowered her voice. “Alec, how do you neutralize Slick?”
“Acid immersion. It unravels the carbon nanotubes.”
“No other way? Burning? Freezing? Detox? Chemotherapy?”
“X-ray exposure, but only a sustained, high-power burst.” He gave her the briefest glance. “Carbon nanotubes are resilient things.”
“Resilient machines that can get inside your head and reconfigure your brain.” Hell. “Slick apparently spreads by direct contact with open wounds.”
“Yes. Blood-to-blood contact.” He turned his head sharply. “You examined him?”
The gulp lodged again in her throat. “Yes. But I avoided touching the lacerations on his arm, and I had no cuts or scratches myself.”
The air felt clammy. She fought a shiver.
Shepard’s expression softened. “You should be fine.”
The shiver sloughed off, and for a second the cold air felt refreshing. She closed her eyes and breathed out. She wanted to smile. Wanted to laugh out loud.
“Thanks.” She did smile, with relief. She breathed in again. “Can Slick spread in any other ways?”
“Inhalation following an explosion. But of course, in an explosion, it would penetrate any blast wounds via shrapnel.”
“Inhalation puts fire and rescue crews at risk.” A vision of frightening emptiness passed through her mind. An entire street of people whose thoughts would be harvested before they could become memories.
“If it comes to it, hope Slick blows up in somebody’s office or car, not outside,” Shepard said.
“How much does it take to cause an explosion?”
“Two ounces would be more than enough.”
Her breath frosted the night. “Presume Ian got it when he went to Africa. And that he’s after you because he no longer has it in his possession.”
“Yes. He must have lost it.”
“Lost it? Or did he forget where it is?”
He turned to her. “Yes. Damn. Where is it?”
“How would somebody transport it?”
“Slick is dispersed in an oily emulsion. It could be liquid.”
“Presume he brought it back from Africa. Would he have checked it in his luggage?”
“He would never have let it out of his sight. Not out of his immediate possession. Never.”
“So where did he get separated from the sample?”
She thought of every place he’d been. South Africa. London. The 747. The airport, the ambulance, the hospital. The city of San Francisco.
“If he had it with him when he boarded the flight from London, he would have kept it on his person or in his carry-on luggage,” she said.
“Without a doubt. If it’s . . . oh, Ian.”
“Alec?”
“He doesn’t know about proper handling protocols. He’s trained in handling people. Not nanoparticles. Christ.”
Jo felt a chill rise through the air. Of course Kanan hadn’t handled Slick properly. It seemed self-evident.
“If my conjecture’s correct and your man Lesniak stole it from the South African lab—would he have known proper handling protocols?” she said.
“Yes. He’s a materials technician. He worked with the stuff.” Shepard stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “That doesn’t mean he did handle it properly. Who knows how he got it out of the lab and transported it.”
“What’s scaring you?” Jo said.
“If Ian brought Slick back with him on the plane . . .”
“The cops and the paramedics went through his clothing. The cell phone was all they found.” She thought harder. “His backpack had a laptop in it, I’m sure. But the cops said they didn’t find alcohol or drugs—I didn’t get a chance to go through his things.”
Shepard’s voice turned weightless, like he had no breath with which to speak. “Slick is in a liquid suspension. But with current security restrictions, Ian couldn’t have brought a large container of liquid into the cabin of the plane. He would have disguised it.” He ran his hand over his forehead again. “If he put it in any kind
of plastic container . . . Slick can corrode it. Break the seal. Leak out.”
“And?” The feeling of alarm rose through her like brackish water. “Does Slick destabilize ordinary plastics?”
“Yes. And when Slick comes in contact with oxygen, the plastics become volatile. Slick encourages even the most innocuous substances, in the right circumstances, to explode.”
“The hospital will still have his backpack. I’ll call.”
In the distance, creeping toward them, came a set of headlights. Jo and Shepard backed against one of the heavy wooden gateposts. The headlights curved along the road. They could hear a quiet motor and the hum of tires on asphalt. Gradually the headlights turned from fuzz to scalpel sharpness.
Through the fog Jo saw a high-profile vehicle pull to the curb and stop. After a few seconds the headlights boomed to high beams.
Shepard exhaled and stepped out from behind the gatepost. “We’re good. That’s her.”
“Her? Your right-hand man?”
“Metaphorically. She’s my head of finance. Riva Calder.”
Jo put a hand on his arm. “Hold on. Calder?”
“Riva knows Ian. She can help us find him. Hopefully before he causes a disaster.”
“I met one of your employees today who has only bad things to say about Riva Calder—Ruth Fischer.”
His face soured. “Ruth Fischer has been fired. Did she critique your moral fiber by analyzing the color of your aura? She’s an unreliable judge of character. Forget whatever she told you.”
Jo tried to gauge his face in the fog. She saw annoyance and real worry.
“Riva’s the go-to gal in the company,” he said. “She knows everything and everybody. She’ll access Ian’s files and records, his contacts, everyplace he’s traveled for Chira-Sayf. She can pinpoint where he’s hiding. And she’ll help keep us away from places and people he’s likely to be following.”
“And Ian won’t have included Calder in his list of people to follow? He won’t be after her?”
“No.”
He said it so imperatively, with a derisive snort, that Jo wondered what lay behind his vehemence. He put a hand against Jo’s back and strode with her toward the SUV.
The driver’s door opened and a woman got out. “Alec.”
Shepard waved. “She’s also an old friend of Misty’s. She’s like family.”
Calder walked around the front of the SUV, shrouded in the fog. Gradually she turned from a silhouette to a three-dimensional woman. Jo halted. The vehicle was a Chevy Tahoe. She saw the woman’s chunky boots and white coat. She saw the dried blood on her face.
Shepard sped up. “Riva. My God, what happened to you?”
Jo saw the wild heat in the woman’s eyes. She saw the red imprint of a steam iron on the woman’s forehead.
She shouted at Shepard. “Alec—no!”
The back doors of the Tahoe opened and two men jumped out.
“Run,” Jo said.
The men sprinted toward them. Jo broke for the bushes. She got ten feet before Calder threw the steam iron at her, holding on to the end of the cord like she was swinging a battle mace. It hit Jo in the back of the knee. Her leg buckled and she sprawled to the dirt.
Shepard said, “What the hell?”
Calder dropped onto Jo’s back like a hyena. “Not so much fun when you’re the one on the receiving end, is it?”
28
Radio mike in his hand, Officer Frank Liu listened to the dispatcher as she relayed more information about the red Navigator parked by the curb ahead of his patrol car.
“There’s a warrant for the arrest of Ian Kanan,” she said. “He’s a suspect in the murder at the marina this morning. He’s presumed to be armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme caution.”
Liu scanned the street. The Navigator was empty. Kanan might have dumped it or might still be in the vicinity.
“Officer requests backup,” he said. “I’m going to patrol the street on foot.”
He put the mike down and got out.
Jo kicked, struggling to knock Calder off her back. Calder pressed a hand to Jo’s neck and pushed her into the dirt. Jo tried to scream but could only cough.
Shepard cried, “Riva, what’s going on?”
“Shut up, Alec,” Calder said.
He approached. “This is Dr. Beckett. She’s—”
“I know who the hell she is.” Calder pointed at her own face. “She did this to me.”
Shepard frowned. “She . . .”
Don’t say it, Jo thought. Just get it. Get it fast, and help me.
Calder turned to the men. “Get her up.”
She climbed off Jo’s back and the men wrestled Jo to her feet. Jo’s ribs and knee throbbed, but she knew she could run. She had to go and take Shepard with her, into the trees and fog. She shook her hair out of her eyes and got a good look at the men who were holding her.
They didn’t look like they’d been hired for their grasp of theoretical physics.
One had a shaved head and the well-packed physique of a kielbasa sausage. How the gold chain stayed around his head she didn’t know, because his shoulders sloped and he had no neck. His eyes were the temperature of coals on a barbecue grill. The second man was as slight as a whip of licorice but had a grip like a pair of garden shears. He was bug-eyed and jumpy. Jo wondered if he had a thyroid condition. Or a methamphetamine condition. He had dressed for a desperate attempt to impress Snoop Dogg. A blue bandanna hung from the back pocket of his saggy jeans.
They were the men who had broken into her house.
Calder stepped up, sneering, and slapped Jo in the face. Her cheek stung like wild. The kielbasa’s lips retracted with a wet sound and his gums gleamed in the headlights.
Shepard gasped. “Riva, what are you doing?”
She spun on him. “Shut up.”
He shut up. Jo couldn’t tell whether he was dumbfounded or plotting behind the façade of dumbfoundedness.
“Where’s Ian?” Calder said.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t treat me like your gofer. Where is he?”
“I have no idea. If I did, I’d get him and take him to the hospital.”
In the fizzing headlights, Calder’s forehead looked an angry red. The burn from the iron had blistered in the jutting shape of a ship’s prow. Her eye was twitching.
“Where’s the last sample of Slick?” she said.
“Ian has it.”
“He does not. I asked him in the E.R.”
Jo said, “In the E.R., Ian was confused.”
“He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“He couldn’t remember. He may have brought Slick back with him and forgotten entirely.” Jo’s face throbbed where Calder had slapped her. She took a chance. “Let’s go to San Francisco General and look for it.”
“Forget it. I searched his luggage.”
“Not all Ian’s belongings were in the room when you came.”
“Shut your mouth.”
Calder rubbed the ring on her left hand. It was Misty’s—the double dolphins, bound by a sapphire. Eye still twitching, she turned to Shepard. “You’re going to get Slick and turn it over.” She gestured to the men. “Put them in the Tahoe.”
The kielbasa grabbed Shepard’s arm. He and the licorice whip hauled him and Jo to the SUV, shoved them in the back seat, and slammed the doors.
Shepard looked stunned and furious. “I can’t believe this.”
The men walked around to the front of the SUV, lit up like clowns by the headlights, and stood talking to Calder. Shepard pointed at the kielbasa.
“I’ve seen him before. He applied for the security position at Chira-Sayf.” He still looked flabbergasted. “Ex-cop or something. Had problems with his background check.”
“Riva apparently saved his résumé,” Jo said. “You said she knows the Kanans?”
“For fifteen years. She was Misty’s sorority sister.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“She�
��s in love with Ian, isn’t she?” Jo said.
He looked at her sharply, as if thinking, How did you know? “Yes.”
“Ruth Fischer told me Riva’s too interested in your brother. And you said Ian would never follow her—like he wants to keep as far from Riva as possible.”
And watching Calder twirl Misty’s wedding ring had given Jo a hot kick in the brain.
“Riva impersonated Misty to get inside dope—from me, the police, the hospital—but it’s more than that, and it’s dangerous,” she said.
The licorice whip walked to the Tahoe and climbed in the front passenger seat. He shut the door, sniffing and squirming beneath his jacket. Calder continued talking to the kielbasa and got on the phone.
On the road in the distance, the headlights of another car appeared like dandelion fuzz. Calder nodded the kielbasa away from the Tahoe. After ten feet they faded into revenants.
Jo was sitting behind the empty driver’s seat. She punched the button to lower the window. Nothing happened. The licorice whip turned.
“Childproof lock. Doors won’t open from the inside, neither, so don’t bother.”
Letting his self-satisfied sneer linger for a moment, he reached behind his back. When he leaned forward Jo saw a tattoo on the back of his neck, in Gothic typeface. VANCE. He took out a pistol.
Jo’s stomach coiled. He set the gun on his lap and crossed his arms, pouting at her like he was an extra in a Tupac video. The guy was a dumb criminal, writing his name in 156-point type on his own skin, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous.
The dandelion headlights turned into a Toyota Camry and hummed past before vanishing into the mist. Shepard watched the car disappear. Jo sensed anger radiating from him. She saw Calder and the kielbasa, vague in the fog.
Her fear was increasing by the second. Riva was wearing Misty’s clothes, her necklace, her wedding ring—and Jo might have taken all that for an elaborate effort at pulling off the impersonation, but Calder continually massaged the ring and clutched the dolphin pendant as if doing so might conjure Ian Kanan by her side. Calder had erased Ian’s phone messages to Misty because she “couldn’t take it.” She’d told Jo, “He’s my soul mate” and blushed about the idea of their sex life. And she had clutched Ian’s T-shirt from the laundry basket with the same yearning Jo had seen when Mr. Peebles held the Beanie Baby to his chest. Longing, craving, owning.
