“By now, there can’t be much left of the brain,” Richard said to Jessie. “And it’ll be hell to get inside that thick skull.”
“But whatever shape it’s in, any prions should still be active and that’s where the highest concentration would have been,” Jessie said. “And we can go in through an eye with a long needle and wash out the cranial cavity.”
“There’s already a hole in the skull,” Lundval said.
“What kind of hole?” Richard asked.
“Bullet.”
“That hole will be easier to use than an eye,” Jessie said. “But I’ve got to gather up some materials first.”
“And we should change clothes,” Richard added.
“DO YOU REMEMBER where the head is?” Richard asked.
“About right there,” Lundval said, pointing.
“How deep?”
“Ain’t easy digging a hole big enough to hold the leftovers of a cow.”
Seeing that this was all he was going to get, Richard pulled his surgical mask up over his mouth and nose and walked to the edge of the burial scar in the earth, where he drove the blade of his shovel into the ground with his foot.
When Jessie figured out that his intention was to dig a semicircular trench around the plot’s periphery, she joined in at the opposite end of the arc.
Fifteen minutes later, when they had produced a continuous trench a foot deep, they paused to catch their breath.
“Didn’t have any help when I dug that hole,” Lundval observed from the folding chair he’d brought out from the house. He seemed to have lost interest in getting his corn into the crib.
The human sense of smell is generally able to adapt to noxious odors so that with continual exposure, the intensity fades. This did not apply to the stench from Lundval’s pigs, which easily penetrated Richard and Jessie’s surgical masks and filled their lungs with each labored breath they took. And it was a cool day. Had it been summer, they’d have needed scuba gear to breathe.
Wanting this to be over, Richard returned to work and began scraping dirt from the center of the plot into the trench. With Jessie’s help, they soon uncovered a white ear. A little more work brought the top of a mangy black head and snout into view. The cool temperatures of fall had slowed the decomposition process so that the flesh on the head was pretty much intact.
Now that he knew exactly where things were, Richard drove his shovel into the earth next to the cow’s massive head and levered it upward, raising two sunken sightless eyes to the surface, like some weird land crocodile looking for prey.
“We could use a broom,” Jessie said to Lundval.
“Don’t have one I’d want to use on that,” he said. He got out of his chair, took a jackknife from his overalls, and walked over to a tall stand of dried grass, where he harvested a fistful and brought it to Jessie. “Don’t have to buy everything you need from a store.”
With the grass, she whisked the dirt from the cow’s head, looking for the bullet hole.
“Wasn’t on that side,” Lundval said after she’d worked a while without finding it.
After moving to the correct side, she located it in about two minutes: a dirt-filled depression just behind the cow’s ear. She moved her box of supplies in close and cleared the dirt and tissue debris from the bullet hole with the wooden handle of a cotton swab. Then she reinserted the handle and slid it deeper into the hole, feeling around for the brain. But the skull seemed empty.
There was no way to know the exact condition of the cow’s brain after two months in the ground. It had probably been reduced to a liquid or had dried into a shriveled little ball like the orange Jessie had once mistakenly left in her high school locker the entire year. Either of these possibilities would explain why she hadn’t felt it with her probe.
With her money on the liquid possibility, Jessie wedged the female end of a long, large-bore needle into a length of plastic tubing. She attached the other end of the tubing to the tip of a turkey baster she’d added to her supplies from her kitchen at home. She inserted the needle into the bullet hole until only a small amount of the shaft was still visible. Then she pumped the rubber bulb on the baster.
This drew nothing from the cranial cavity but air. So, if the brain was still liquid, there wasn’t enough volume for her to find it. But that was easy enough to fix.
From her box of supplies, she took out a large plastic bottle of saline solution and unscrewed the top. She put the needle into the saline, filled the baster, and discharged the contents into the cow’s cranial cavity. She did this twice more, then tried again to collect fluid from the skull. This time when she pumped the rubber bulb, a dingy liquid moved up the plastic tubing into the baster. To make sure she was getting a well-mixed sample, she discharged the captured brain soup back into the skull, then again drew as much of it into the baster as she could get.
She put this material into a series of plastic vials and screwed on their blue caps. In the interest of safety, she slipped each of the capped vials into a larger vial, which she also sealed. The contaminated needle was treated the same way. Needing larger containers for the baster and the plastic tubing, she used double zip-top plastic bags for those. After wiping the outer vials and bags with a prion-inactivating solution, she carefully removed her rubber gloves and dropped them into a plastic bag that Richard held out for her. This too, was double-bagged.
She and Richard then held a short conference, speaking quietly so Lundval couldn’t hear.
“What should we do with the carcass?” Jessie asked.
“Do you have all the sample you’re ever going to need?”
“I’ve got a lot, but I’d hate to do something irrevocable here and not be able to get more.”
“Then let’s just cover it up.”
“Suppose the people who were here earlier discover they’ve got the wrong carcass?”
“I don’t want to dig this whole thing up and then have to hide it somewhere. They won’t even look at what they got. They’ll just dispose of it.”
“Then for now, we leave it.”
Assuming for the sake of safety that the carcass truly was infectious, while Richard reburied it, Jessie explained to Lundval that he shouldn’t disturb it and should stake a plastic cover over the spot so nothing further from the site could leach into the groundwater. Before leaving, Richard wiped the shovels down with inactivating solution.
When they were back in the car, Jessie said, “Now we need some animals and cages.”
“How about the pet store on Lincoln?” Richard said.
“Someplace in Madison would be better. Can you take care of that? I have to get back to work.”
“What do you need?”
Without the Bruxton vivarium backing them up, Jessie decided to buy a few more mice than she’d used the last time. “Get sixteen mice and eight cages.” She picked her handbag off the floor and fished around in it until she came up with a set of keys. She removed one from the ring and handed it to Richard. “This opens the door to the apartment over my garage. When you get the animals, put them in the kitchen. Leave the key under the flowerpot at the foot of the stairs.”
“I THINK SHE’D like that one,” Otto Christianson said, pointing at an old print showing two apples on a branch and another split in half. His wife’s birthday was coming fast, and he’d asked Charles Hallock to bring over some prints that would look good in a kitchen.
“There’s a matching one in here somewhere,” Hallock said, flipping through his pile.
As he worked, Otto noticed that Hallock’s left little finger stuck out at an odd angle. The old Otto, before he’d embarked on his efforts at self-restraint, would have asked Hallock what had happened. But the new Otto kept quiet.
“Here it is.” Hallock pulled out another apple print with the same colors in it, but with the fruit arranged differe
ntly. “If you have the room, these complement each other nicely.”
“How much for the pair?”
Hallock cited a price that made Otto wince, but Frannie was hard to buy for and he’d never find anything else in the time left. “Does that include framing?”
“Sorry, framing’s extra.”
Otto shook his head. “You’re a hard man.”
“It’s a hard world.”
“Will you take care of the framing?”
“Do you know what you want?”
“How about you come to the house, take a look at the kitchen, and you decide. And tell me if I picked wrong.”
“When?”
“She’ll be at bingo tonight,” Otto said. “Come over around seven-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Can it be ready by Tuesday?”
“Jesus, Otto, you waited kind of late to do this, didn’t you?”
“I thought the customer was always right.”
“Oh, you’re doing the right thing. I just could have used a little more time. But I’ll get it done.” Hallock gathered up his prints and left.
With that out of the way, Otto felt that even if he didn’t do another constructive thing all day, he’d have had a good one. But there was one other important thing on his agenda.
“I’M SORRY, BUT Doctor Bruxton has left for the day,” his secretary said.
“Is he at home?” Otto asked.
“I’m not free to say. Would you care to make an appointment?”
“That’s okay. Thanks for your time.”
Otto left Bruxton’s office and headed for the exit. He could have saved himself the wasted trip by calling Bruxton and asking him the questions on his mind, but he always felt dissatisfied with any conversation that wasn’t face to face. He probably could have intimidated Bruxton’s secretary into telling him where Bruxton was, but that might have gotten her into trouble. So, he’d just drive over to Bruxton’s home and see for himself if he was there.
Twenty minutes later, Otto pulled up to the wrought-iron gates across the entrance to Bruxton’s estate and pressed the button attached to the speaker mounted on a pole at window level. High on the cut-stone column supporting the left gate, a TV camera stared down at him.
“Yes?” a cold voice said from the speaker.
Forty years ago, Otto would have given in to the thought that flashed through his head at that instant and he’d have said, “I’d like a Big Mac and a large order of fries.” But the acquisition of responsibilities and two arthritic knees takes the impishness out of a man. So he just said, “Sheriff Christianson here to see Doctor Bruxton.”
After a short wait, the gates swung open and Otto went in. He had read once that there were two levels of society whose homes were largely unseen: the poorest because they live in sewers and cardboard boxes in dark alleys, and the richest because they can afford enough land to ensure their privacy. He thought of that now as he proceeded up the cobblestone drive, toward a house set so far into the property he couldn’t even see it.
Finally, after a three-minute winding trip, it came into view: a tall sprawling structure with many wings and elevations in which the cobblestones of the drive seemed to continue up the walls to a slate roof. It looked to Otto like a very solid home, but one that would cost a lot to heat.
As he drew near the front door, he saw a man come out and get into a white van with some lettering on the side. When the van pulled away, he could see that the lettering said: A & M Communication and Electronics. Taking the van’s parking place, Otto concluded that Bruxton probably just had some kind of new security system installed.
Even on the short drive over here, Otto’s knees had locked so it took him twice as long to get out of the car as it would most people. And his first few steps were stiff and slow. But by the time he reached the front door and rang the bell, he was pretty well oiled up and moving fine.
The door was answered by a man with long blond hair, a prominent nose, and soft skin. Boone, Otto thought he was called. Whether that was his first or last name, Otto didn’t know. Boone was wearing a tan suit that seemed too casual for his position. But what the hell do I know about people with this kind of money, Otto told himself.
“Please come in,” Boone said, stepping back.
Otto had never been in Bruxton’s home before, so he was eager to see it. Stepping inside, he entered a reception hall with a ceiling so high it didn’t seem like it could fit in the house he’d seen from the drive. The floor was two shades of tan marble, laid like a checkerboard but with the squares at an angle. A staircase with complicated black and gold wrought-iron railings led to a landing with a big stained-glass window. It then cut back and went up a few feet more to a balcony. The center part of the staircase steps were covered with a continuous carpet the color of a Guernsey cow, but with gold striping on the edges. The walls were cream-colored and must have had at least three coats on them to look that good. Next to the stairs was a weird sofa that looked as though it had been made by somebody who’d gone right from an all-day bender at the Lucy II to his workshop. The seat kind of ran along okay for a while, then just curled to the floor and went under the damn thing. Weird. But it had a pretty fabric on it; cream like the walls, but with Guernsey-colored stripes.
“Doctor Bruxton is in the study,” Boone said, leading the way.
Seeing him in here, Otto wondered if Boone had picked out his suit so he’d blend with everything else.
“Doctor Bruxton . . . Sheriff Christianson.”
“Thank you, Boone. Come in, Sheriff.”
The study was so unusual that Otto found himself cranking his head around trying to see it all at once, like a tourist at the Vatican, or at least what he thought that might be like having never been there.
The ceiling here was a series of domes and arches all painted with heads like the cameos his wife collected. Against the walls were a dozen columned bookcases with glass doors. In them, all the books looked as old as Methuselah. Bruxton sat in a portion of the room partially separated from the rest by two columned room dividers that served as pillars for a ceiling arch painted with more cameos. He was working at a gold table supported on the corners by black and gold statues that looked Egyptian . . . or maybe they weren’t.
“Have a seat,” Bruxton said.
Otto couldn’t see Bruxton very well because there was a window behind him with white curtains that spread the light from the sun so it was like looking directly into a flashlight.
Otto crossed the room, entered the alcove where Bruxton waited, and pulled the offered chair from directly in line with the window, to the left, where he could see Bruxton’s face. Otherwise, he might as well have just called.
“May I get you something?” Bruxton said. “Coffee, soft drink?” He was dressed in a dark suit with a thin gray stripe and wore a tie with a bold pattern of blue and yellow diamonds. The tip of a handkerchief poked from his breast pocket. Classy. But he still looked old and weak.
“No thanks. I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Henry Pennell.”
“You’re lucky I was available,” Bruxton said. “That wouldn’t normally be the case. What I’m suggesting is that it would be better in the future if you would make an appointment instead of just driving up to the gate like that, or appearing at my office unexpectedly as you did last time.” In the next room, just a pair of doors away, was Bruxton’s beloved art collection. To have a law enforcement official, even one with the limited abilities of Christianson, this close to it was exciting for Bruxton, even beyond the risk of discussing Henry Pennell.
“I guess I should apologize,” Otto said. “But making an appointment just doesn’t seem like the way the police should work.”
“As you wish,” Bruxton said. “But don’t be surprised if the next time you do th
is, you are turned away.” Bruxton knew he shouldn’t antagonize Christianson, but he wasn’t going to let this bumpkin think he was dealing with some farmer.
“I’ll remember that,” Otto said.
“What is it you wanted to know?”
“I forgot to ask you last time we talked . . . What exactly was it you wanted to say to Pennell the night you had the guard at the company gate stop him?”
After a lifetime of practice, Bruxton was a consummate liar. Because of his deteriorating health he didn’t have the skills he once possessed, but felt he could still handle Christianson with ease. “Earlier in the day, Henry stopped me in the hall and asked if we could talk. I told him to set up an appointment with my secretary, but that I probably couldn’t get to him for three or four days because the next morning I was leaving for France to set up a better European distribution system for Vasostasin. He seemed so disappointed that later, after I’d finished the work I’d taken home for the evening, I decided to talk to him if I could locate him.
“He worked late most nights, so I called his office, but got no answer. I then checked with the guard at the gate to see if he’d left for the night. I learned from him that Henry was still on the premises. So I told the guard that if he saw him within the next hour, to have him call me.”
Even as Bruxton wove his tale, he could see difficulties with it. The answering machine in Pennell’s office . . . Why hadn’t he left a message there for Pennell to call?
“Why didn’t you talk to Pennell when the guard called and said he was right there?”
“I was in the middle of another more important call and couldn’t talk.”
“I see.” Otto dropped his eyes and looked at the floor, trying to think if that was everything he wanted to know.
More than ready for this to be over, Bruxton said, “Well, Sheriff, if that’s all—”
“Why didn’t you leave a message on the answering machine in Pennell’s office that night, telling him to call you if he got back by a certain time?”
Bruxton almost said, “I did.” But the way Christianson had phrased the question made it sound as though he already knew there was no message.
The Lethal Helix Page 19
